How to Successfully Disappear
by MelodiousDreams
Summary: "It never goes away, no matter how many times I visit: it is truly strange to stare at ones own gravestone." Six months post-Reichenbach, Sherlock meets somebody in a deserted graveyard. Is it the right time for him to return? Follow him as he battles himself - which will win out, his head or his heart? (Rating changed to T but that's only to be cautious)
1. Chapter 1

It is... strange.

Lips pursed, I frown, gazing intently at the slab of black marble that lies in front of me. It has been meticulously polished, cut completely smooth, engraved with gold lettering - plain, giving nothing away. A single bunch of flowers is left below. A trio of white roses, laying on top of the freshly dug earth. They had been left there not twenty minutes beforehand; lain down softly by the calloused hand of an ex-soldier. He had stood there for precisely thirty-two minutes before leaving. For the vast majority of that time, he had been completely silent. Stoically, he stared ahead, daring the world to disturb him. For the other few minutes, he had spoken to the air. It had started out softly. He wiped his left eye with his sleeve hastily, before... shouting.

"This isn't funny any more! Six... months. Six! Just stop. Stop it, Sherlock!"

No longer caring for the sleeve, the last rays of sunlight caught a slight glimmer against the mans cheek. My stomach experiences a strange feeling upon remembering this, like it has knotted itself. Impossible, but that is the best way to describe it. John Watson gathered himself after this outburst, gave a final look up and down the marble that I now find myself in front of, and with that turned and began to walk away. His leg gives out with alternate steps. He is limping again.

I watch him leave from a distance. I want to follow him, reassure him, take what he is feeling away. But I can't. Not yet. He is still in danger: to risk his life now, after everything I have lain down thus far, would be illogical. After being completely certain that he has left, I step out from behind the tree, and begin to walk towards the spot where he had stood, mere moments ago. I find myself staring at the marble slab, trace the engraved name with my eyes.

The feeling doesn't go away, no matter how many times I visit: It is truly strange to stare at one's own gravestone.

Cautiously, I bend down to examine the flowers that John had left. Freshly cut, elegantly arranged with a small white ribbon holding them together. These were professionally done. He leaves the same arrangement behind every time he visits. If I am not there to watch, a small tip in the pocket of one of my homeless network is enough to convince them to keep an eye on him and report back to me. The petals are a stark contrast from the gravestone: purity in spite of the dark surrounding them. I look over them pensively. In all my meticulous planning, I had not foreseen how... affected John would be.

It has been six months exactly since the day the media has dubbed "The Reichenbach Fall". I suppose they think they are being witty and clever. How dull their brains must be.

My plan has, by and large, been completely successful. I am still here, and Moriarty is, it seems, not. Nobody suspects a thing - why would they? To their minds, people don't survive after jumping off three-storey Holmes is dead. The gravestone sits there, so it must be true. And now the only thing to do is bide my time until it is safe to reveal what really happened. I am not sure how long that will be. It depends on how quickly those around me can tie up the loose ends that still pose a threat to myself and my.. friends.

Friends.

Time appears to flow at a completely seperate pace here. I silently observe my surroundings to pass the time. The gravestone three to the left of the one I stand in front of belonged to a male - a man that had caught the eye of more than one woman. The piles of bouquets there are too small to have been left by a family member, yet too large to be left by friends alone. Possibly a young man. The notes scattered around the site suggest a sudden, traumatic departure. Car accident, maybe.

I half-heartedly interpret various other graves in this way. Deducing has, for the moment, lost its thrill. After all, I am nothing without my blogger.

I remember the exaggerated compliments he used to blurt out when we first met.

"That was amazing!" "Brilliant!"

Childs play, in reality. I will freely admit, however, that the memories bring a smile to the edge of my mouth. _But look at me, _I say to myself, _reminiscing like it is him who has died, not me. _The feeling of psuedo-mourning has not left me for six months. Completely unnecessary, of course. Yet, for some reason I cannot shake the feeling of loss that I had not expected to factor in.

I miss him.

Catching myself, I roll my eyes at the emotional drivel. Ridiculous. Replacing the trio of roses, I straighten myelf up and brush my coat down. He is late.

Or is he? I hear the slight cruch of grass being trampled underfoot behind me. There is a metallic clank with every alternate step. An umbrella, substituting for a cane whilst it is not in use. I do not turn around.

"Back amongst the living, are we?"

I exhale through my nose.

"Saying 'back' suggests I left, Mycroft."

I hear a sigh from over my right shoulder.

"Sherlock, for once in your life please try and cooperate. It has been six months and you have made contact with me twice. Twice. Two sixty second phone calls in half a year is not keeping up your side of the deal. I had begun to wonder if you had chosen to neglect it completely."

I turn to face him, sneering.

"Your distrust wounds me, dear brother." My voice drips with sarcasm, though my deadpan expression gives the impression of extreme boredom. "Besides, I would never neglect a deal I made with family." There is a pause as we stare eachother right in the grey-blue eyes we both inherited from our mother. I raise an eyebrow, daring him to object to the not-so-subtle second meaning to my words. "Not to mention that this particular deal is of vital importance to the safety of... Well, you would know."

"Mm, yes." Mycroft nods his head stiffly. "He has been mentioning you an awful lot. Seems to have gotten it into his head that Moriarty forced you to jump. He suspects something, you know. His mind just can't fully make the connections yet."

I digest this with a slight frown. I am impressed. Then again, John is not an idiot. He is intelligent in a different way to Mycroft and I.

"I need more time." I say simply after a pause, placing my hands behind my back.

"Time for what, Sherlock? Nothing is stopping you from returning. His behaviour... well, his therapist is concerned." He pulls a pad of paper out of his coat pocket and skims over it with his eyes. "It says here he isn't sleeping, isn't eating properly, he regularly turns up late for work, or else skips it completely. His psychosomatic limp has returned. He isn't moving on."

This gives me pause. I had noticed the limp, noticed the slight thinning around his cheeks. Hearing his symptoms listed out prompts a feeling that produces that strange stomach knotting effect again. I feel... guilty.

I recover quickly, remembering whose company I am in."It is not the right time yet. John is... still fragile. To reappear now risks damaging him further. And besides..." I look at him. "Moran is still at large. I will not risk it yet, not until I know that he is no longer a threat to us."

Mycroft shifts his weight from his left foot to his right, leaning slightly against his black umbrella. He appears casual, but I can see the tension in his jaw and in the way his shoulders are held.

"It may interest you to know that we have traced him to the French Alps. We are preparing a team."

"Finally, something useful. It's taken you a while."

"Sherlock, please." he sighs. "You would do well to remember that I am doing you a favour. All I asked for in return was that you keep in regular contact, and didn't do anything stupid. Meanwhile, I have lied to John's face repeatedly, organised the Moran mission, hushed up most details of your death and cleared your name of all posthumous charges regarding Moriarty and the children you supposedly kidnapped. I am giving you a clean slate, Sherlock. Some appreciation would be nice."

I fold my arms.

"Is Moran the last?"

"You're welcome." he says with a deadpan expression. "Yes, to our knowledge."

"Let me know when he is dead. Only then will returning be a viable option."

"It may take a while. Moran is one of the most dangerous men on the planet. I am sure attempts on his life have been made before, and he is still here. He will have learned from those attacks, he will know how to make it extremely difficult for us."

I nod, scanning around the area.

"Try and be quick. I am desperately bored."

"I can imagine." He picks his umbrella up and turns to begin walking away. "Oh, and Sherlock?" he looks over his shoulder at me, eyebrows raised. "Regular contact was part of the deal. Remember that."

"Yes, yes. Find me when Moran is dead."

With that, he walks away, crunching more grass underfoot. I do not watch him go. Instead, I look around the graveyard, watching for any trace of our conversation not being private. The place is deserted. Satisfied, I look over the grave once more. Everything is falling into place. Soon, it will be safe for me to return.

Soon.


	2. Chapter 2

The front page of the old papers strewn across the coffee table scream at John Watson.

"Sherlock Holmes Scandal!" "The Truth Revealed!"

"'He's a fake!'"

Painful to think about, but easy to avoid. The more recent papers are a bit quieter, more crafty. As John picks them up, it feels safe. No mention of.. him makes itself known in the first few pages. It is not until about halfway through, when his guard has began to slip down, that "The Reichenbach Fall: Six Months On" makes a sly appearance, causing John to gasp as though the paper had up and stabbed him in the heart. He throws it to the side aggressively. It brings a nauseous feeling to his stomach to think that they are still trying to exploit the story of his best friend. Anything for a cheap reaction and a quick paycheck.

221B Baker Street was quiet. It had been quiet since Sherlock had left. No explosions, the result of experiments gone awry. Nothing questionable in the fridge. Or the microwave, for that matter. No cracks in the wall from gunshots fired at stupid'o'clock in the morning. No irritated all-nighters, trying to piece together the puzzle. No "Bored!" calls at two in the morning. At points, John had almost moved out of 221B to escape from the onslaught by his memories every time he walked through the door. But something had compelled him to stay, every time. Despite the efforts made by Mrs Hudson, who checked in on him every day, "just because," John was lonely living there.

Where he had lived.

Sometimes it was like looking after a child. He would sulk for days on end, curl up on the sofa and demand something to do. He could make a mess without even trying, and only when John mentions the state of the place would he half-heartedly shuffle some things around, making it tidy in one area but messier in another. He would proclaim that he had never been so bored in his life at least once a week. He could notice everything and nothing at the same time. Apparently, they had very different ideas of what 'important' details were.

One time, John had opened the door and shuffled in after a particularly bad break up. Arguments had been had - well, she had yelled at him and he had stood and endured it all, eventually turning and walking away without a single raised word. Needless to say, he had been a bit downtrodden when he had returned. Sherlock had been fussing over some experiment of his. He barely turned around as John walked in, gave him a quick once over with his greyblue eyes and turned back to his microscope.

"You found your watch." he said absently, adjusting the resolution of the image on the microscope.

John blinked.

"Wh.. what?" he murmured, looking down to his wrist. There, indeed, was a watch that had been thrown at his feet by a certain ex-girlfriend of his about an hour beforehand. He had completely forgotten.

"Been to visit Cara, then, have we?" Sherlock continued, taking the slide from underneath the microscope and holding it up to the light, examining it further. He had not made eye contact with the doctor since John had returned. "I gather it didn't go well. Shame." This was said in such a detached fashion that John was taken aback. It wasn't even obvious sarcasm, it was expressionless.

"We broke up. I'm fine, thanks for your concern."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as John flopped onto the sofa, sighing. There was a slight pause. Then,

"Your watch. The, um... the clocks have gone back, you need to change the time on there."

It was exasperating at times. John had learned slowly that Sherlock wasn't being deliberately insensitive, he just genuinely didn't factor emotion into his thoughts. He could unravel the methods of a deranged serial killer with one footprint, but feelings were a real mystery to him. It was actually quite endearing to see him stumble mentally as he realises that "sentiment" needs factoring in to the motives of the killer, or more often, into conversations with his flatmate.

But it didn't matter now, anyway. Sherlock Holmes was gone.

Or was he? John simply couldn't lay down and accept that Sherlock was dead. Just like that. Moriarty had killed him. Forced him to call John, say his goodbyes and then... No. It wasn't suicide, it was murder. Or perhaps, a fake murder. Something didn't add up. Sherlock would never admit to being a fraud of his own free will. He was a proud man in that respect, generally regarding himself as the smartest person in any given room (he was usually right, too - not that John would ever tell him that.). Recently, when the pain experienced by thinking about that day had numbed slightly, John had tentatively tried to piece together what must have happened.

Okay, John. Focus.

What did he know for sure? They had gone to Kitty Riley's house. And _he _had been there. Sherlock had ran off, saying there was "something he needed to do". He had gone to St Barts, and when John had joined him later, he was sat in one of the labs, calmly. Then... John had gotten the phone call saying that Mrs Hudson had been shot, and they needed to go to her right this second. He had, of course, moved to rush out. But Sherlock? Sherlock had been less concerned. He had said... he was "busy". John had gotten angry, called him a machine and stormed off. The phone call was most likely a set-up by Moriarty to lure him away from the consulting detective, for Mrs Hudson was completely bullet-free when he had arrived at the house, panicking. It was at this point that he had realised his mistake.

By then, it was too late.

He ran towards a taxi, sat tensely as he was taken to Sherlock. God, he was going so slowly. Could you move any faster? Bloody traffic. He wasn't sure of the consequences of his actions yet, but a dreadful feeling was taking root in the pit of his stomach. This feeling had not gone away, still lived inside of him six months later.

John blamed himself.

He had seen it happen. That had been Sherlock's wish. Echoes of their last conversation passed through John's mind every so often. "No, stay exactly where you are." "Nobody could be that clever." "You could."

"It's my note."

"Goodbye, John."

It was at this moment that John Watson lost everything. His best friend had taken everything with him when he had done what he did. For the first month, John had barely uttered a word to anyone except to Sherlock's grave. Harry had come down to visit him, but didn't seem to notice just how wrong things were for her brother. The closest she had come to comforting him at any stage of her week-long visit had been on the penultimate night where they had sat in 221B and she had leaned over, held his hand and said "You know, John, you can't cry over it forever. Selfish ba-" she had quickly changed her mind on word choice from the glare she was currently receiving from the doctor. "He... wouldn't have wanted you upset, John. I know it's hard, but... you have to start moving on soon, even if it's just a teeny bit."

Lestrade checked in around once a week. Stress lines had settled across his forehead - he was lost without the consulting detective, too, but in a different way to John's emotional turmoil. He too had touched on the topic of 'moving on', but every time John would shake his head sadly and mutter "Not yet." Lestrade would then frown slightly, pat him on the shoulder and raise whatever glass happened to be in his hand. "To Sherlock?" he would ask. John would nod, trying to freeze the emotion on his features. "To Sherlock."

By far the strangest visits he had regularly received in those first six months had been from Mycroft Holmes. For the first few visits, John had barely been able to utter a word to the other man. He needed someone to share the blame he had set on himself, and the easiest person to blame, Moriarty aside, was Mycroft. He appeared to not be very upset, and after all, it was Mycroft who had passed on the information about Sherlock's life story that had made it that much easier for Moriarty to destroy his enemy. But Mycroft didn't seem to be the type to shy away after a few glares and a few bitter words. Mycroft insisted on visiting at least once a month. When asked why he gave no reason. As time had gone on, John had started mumbled conversations with the other man, mostly about Sherlock.

The last time Mycroft Holmes had come to visit, John had decided to open up about his theory that Sherlock's death was not what it seemed. It had been building inside him, since he had started to think about it properly. Suspicious, his subconscious had started to wonder whether Sherlock was quite as dead as he seemed to be. The only other person he had ever mentioned this to, though, was Ella, his therapist. She had suggested that his theories were a defence mechanism, to prevent further hurt. She had softly said that denial often made situations like this easier to cope with. She said that John was rationalising Sherlock's acts so he could process them fully.  
"But," she had looked straight at John, "perhaps it would be better if you focused on moving on to an acceptance state, rather than trying to undo what has happened." Mycroft had entered and sat down as he usually did, casually making small talk. John had hesitated for about half an hour, before deciding to bite the bullet and blurt out his thoughts.

"I don't think Sherlock killed himself." he said suddenly. Mycroft had a flicker of a frown cross his features, but covered it up quickly. Sherlock's brother, of course, knew the real story, and had in fact helped Sherlock to remain hidden. John must have picked up on something. But what? Receiving no instant reply, John carried on. "I mean... he wouldn't do that. What he said, how he acted - something isn't right. I don't know what yet, but I just know there's something up."

Mycroft sighed. "John..."

"I mean... maybe Moriarty made him. Forced him to... jump. I don't know. I just... you must have thought about this, too?" He was slowly beginning to get more het up. "Or, or... maybe he's just completely not dead? If anyone could fake it, it would be Sherlock. Something's wrong, though. Am I making any sense?"

Mycroft took a longer time to reply than John had expected.

"I think... John, I think my brother would be flattered by your continued faith in him." His words were calculated, the consequence of each word fully weighed before it was verbalised.

"Or he'd tell me to stop sitting around wondering."

There was a pause. Mycroft casually sipped at a cup of tea.

"I have to find out what's going on. Is there... anything you could do to help me?"

The hope in John Watson's eyes was concerning. Mycroft silently berated his brother for his biggest lapse in judgement - had he expected the doctor to completely accept the situation that Sherlock had placed him in and move on straight away?

"No, I don't believe there is. Perhaps... perhaps, ah, you would be better to let these ideas go, John."

The doctor's face dropped, and conversation stopped abruptly. There followed an extremely awkward silence, only broken when five minutes later, Mycroft got to his feet and made ready to leave. Putting his coat on, he turned to face the doctor, who was slowly getting up and limping over to say his polite goodbyes.

"Until next time, John. Ah... try not to linger on those ideas for too long. It will only upset you more."

John nodded once, stiffly.

As Mycroft descended the stairs of 221 Baker Street, he took his phone out and typed a quick text. He much preferred calling, but this particular person probably wouldn't answer a call. He preferred to text. Just this once, Mycroft would indulge him. Pressing send, he pocketed the phone and began to walk down the street, expression hard to read.

"We need to talk. 18:30 tomorrow. Usual place. -MH"


	3. Chapter 3

"What do you mean, 'didn't go to plan'?"

Mycroft Holmes' brow furrowed as he looked to the side, avoiding the gaze of his younger brother, who was currently sat opposite to him, glaring as if there was no tomorrow.

"I just mean-"

"Is Moran dead or not? It's a simple yes or no question, Mycroft." Sherlock cut in sourly. Though his eyes were blazing, the rest of his body was remarkably controlled. His tone was cool, cutting straight through the tension filling through the room. The room was empty aside from the two brothers, simply, elegantly decorated - nice, but you wouldn't want to live here. The place was near enough completely silent - exactly the reason why the Diogenes Club was so good a place for secretive meetings between a not-so-dead dead man and his brother. Nobody to blab.

Mycroft sighed heavily.

"The short answer is we don't know- Sherlock, we always knew this was going to be hard, don't roll your eyes at me." There was a prickly silence before he continued. "Our team located him to the French Alps, as we expected. We had successfully cornered him. It was pretty much guaranteed that he was dead. He was shot, one of our best men reports. But... then he made a break for freedom. He was supposed to be dying, they didn't expect it. He escaped - narrowly, I might add - but he was badly injured, my man made sure to stress that. It is extremely unlikely he survived."

Sherlock scoffed. "It is 'extremely unlikely' that I am alive, but I am. It is no hard task to get yourself treated for a gunshot wound, especially when you are the second most dangerous man on the planet." Sherlock sighed, sinking slightly into the cushions on the back of the chair and showing the beginning signs of what John had christened "The Sulk". "What you're trying to tell me is that it has taken you three months to not quite kill Sebastian Moran. It remains unsafe for me to return. Why, thank you, brother. Really."

Mycroft shifted position in his chair, frostily taking a sip from his drink. Sherlock was equally as cold as he folded his arms and continued to glare. There followed a very long, drawn-out silence, both men too stubborn to talk first. It was this natural stubbornness that had wrecked their familial relationship - neither one would apologise when they had wronged the other. This had, over time, grown to produce a bitterness between the two. Of course, this had never been fixed as both were adament they had done nothing wrong.

Eventually, it was Mycroft who relented, sighing.

"Sherlock, nothing is stopping you if you wanted to come back that badly. I told you three months ago, I'll tell you again - if you wanted to return, you could. It is not I who is holding you back."

"Of course it is." Sherlock scoffed.

Mycroft remained stoic, although the slightest smirk played with the very corner of his lips. "Is it me, Sherlock? Or is it you? You forget that I can read you like a book. Not everybody around you is stupid, as you so elegantly put it. No. I can read the tension in your feet. Your ankles are locked. You used to straighten your feet right out when you were anxious as a child - it's a habit that hasn't disappeared with time, I perceive. Your arms are crossed - you're trying to hide something, or else you're anxious of something. You blame your entire situation on me - a defence mechanism if ever I saw one from you, _dear brother."_ The smirk had grown across the elder mans features as he spoke, watching the younger man quickly adjust his body language defiantly.

"But, what would you be hiding from me? It has been nine months since you faked your death. For almost the entire time, all you have done is pester me to get the situation sorted so you can return. You speak of John Watson an awful lot, and you are always interested to hear if he has been speaking of you. So, eager to return to him, are we? No, no, that's not it. Three months ago when we met at the graveyard, I mentioned how badly he was doing. Your face fell. You covered it up very quickly, but you should have known that I would notice. I notice everything, Sherlock - remember who taught you. So, concerned about your doctor friend. Surely, you'd want to return to him as quickly as possible, then? Yet you cling to any excuse to remain hidden. Moran, for example. Odds are clearly that he is dead, but you choose to be 'cautious'."

Sherlock narrowed his cloudy grey eyes. It had been a very long time since he had been on the receiving end of a deduction, and he was not enjoying it one bit. Mycroft, on the other hand, was relishing in the chance to put his little brother in his place.

"I had never expected you to _care _so much about what people thought of you. Not even John Watson."

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about, Mycroft." Sherlock said coolly, shifting in his chair and getting up to leave. He dusted his suit down huffily and turned on his heel.

"Now, Sherlock, don't be such a child." Mycroft drawled, smirking. He bridged his hands in front of him, eyes laughing. "That's it, isn't it? That's why you keep putting your return off. You're _scared._ Scared to look John Watson in the eye and tell him everything he has felt in the last nine months has been completely unnecessary."

"Mycroft, stop-"

Mycroft let out a chuckle, glad to be winning the power play between the two. "You can't hide forever. The longer you put it off, the worse it will be. Or... maybe he will have moved on. Maybe he won't care." he hissed poisonously.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks with a sharp intake of breath. He turned to face his brother, fuming. "That _isn't funny._ You..." he swallowed his words, breathing heavily. "I won't be goaded into a rushed return, Mycroft. If you won't help me, that's fine. I won't be requiring your help anymore."

He stormed towards the door, pulling it open. "I'll just do it myself."

With that, he slammed the door behind him, leaving Mycroft alone with a quickly disappearing smirk.

**A/N: Thank you so much for everyone that has read/favourited/followed/reviewed - I love you all! I'm sorry this chapter is a bit shorter... but hey. I'm trying to update as much as possible, but I'm reaaaally busy with school and whathaveyou, so if I don't update for two weeks or so, don't worry. Thanks for sticking with this :)**

**oh, and ps: DISCLAIMER - I don't own anything**


	4. Chapter 4

New Years Eve is a strange holiday. At no other time of the year is there an excited aura permeated through the whole planet, all over something that, at the end of the day, is just a change to the last number on the date. Of course, you have all the latent excitement from Christmas to account for some of it - the children running around on their new bikes, or playing with their new toys contentedly. But, all in all, New Years is a very strange day.

It was the one holiday that John Watson had never been too amazed by. Normally a very festive person, John had just never really seen what was so special about this particular day. Even in his university days, when come the end of December there would be no end of parties to go along to and get tipsy at, he would only go really to be sociable. This wasn't to say that John didn't like parties, of course he did. He just didn't see the point of partying this much over something like this. The only thing he didn't mind was the fireworks. One of the upsides to studying in London was that you got an amazing view of the fireworks display that was put on at the end of every year. They were something else. On the telly, people across the country would 'ooh' and 'ahh' appreciatively, but seeing them up close, for real, was a completely different experience. Without a doubt, the fireworks were John's favourite part of the whole New Years thing. When he was 19, a second year student at Barts, he had gone and stood with a group of friends right at the bank of the Thames, and had had front row seats to the display when Big Ben struck twelve.

But if the whole cameraderie hadn't excited him before, it definitely wasn't going to now.

Greg had invited him out for a 'drinkies', but John had politely declined, saying that he had other plans. A complete lie, but the truth of it was that John was just not feeling in any sort of mood to celebrate.

Sherlock had felt a complete indifference for pretty much every holiday, too, so at least he hadn't been alone in that when Sherlock was around. One year, they had both carried on as though it was a completely normal day. At the time, Sherlock had been completely focused on a case (somebody had disappeared along with nothing but his ex-girlfriends cat) and was confused as to why there were so many people dancing in the streets, completely out of their faces.

"It's New Years Eve." John had said to him eventually. Sherlock's reaction was an eyeroll, a short "oh." and then he had carried on as though he had completely deleted the last ten seconds of conversation. In fact, he probably had. The two of them had eventually just found themselves laughing at the people as they walked back home to Baker Street after a completely celebration-free day. John had enjoyed himself just as much as anybody else that day.

But now, Sherlock was gone, and any scraps of festivity John felt had gone with it.

He sat completely still in his armchair, head leaning on his fist. This was to be the first New Year since Sherlock had jumped. Needless to say, John was looking forward to it even less than he usually did. 221B felt cold, empty. Lifeless.

John jumped as his mobile phone screen flickered to life and began to ring. Lestrade's face appeared on the screen - he was phoning. John stared at the phone half-heartedly for a few seconds, wondering if he should even bother to answer. After two moments hesitation, he relented and picked up the phone, sighing. He pressed the touchscreen where it said 'accept'.

"Hello?"

"John," came the warm voice of the Detective Inspector. "Happy New Year!"

"Yeah, and to you." John said, feigning emotion. You could almost feel the frown through the phone.

"Just phoned to check up on you, see if you've changed your mind about coming out tonight yet."

John shook his head. He had known exactly what this phone call was going to be about. Greg's concern was touching, but he really just wasn't in the mood.

"Nah, I'm sure. You enjoy yourself."

"I'd feel a lot better knowing you weren't on your own. New Year's a time to be around people, you know?"

"Yeah, well, I'm just not feeling up to it this year."

Lestrade frowned, pausing for a few moments. "Listen mate, I know exactly why you're a bit down about it this year. But... ah, maybe it would do you some good to... I don't know, forget about it for a few hours. Ruminating isn't good for you. We're all worried about you, you know."

John wasn't too sure on how to reply.

"Besides, the fireworks are supposed to be cracking this year. I remember that's about the only thing you managed to get Sherlock to do last year purely for social reasons. Do you remember? He spent the whole night trying to tell us which chemicals were used to make which colour firework, ha."

The corners of John's mouth lifted ever so slightly, though his heart turned at the mention of Sherlock's name.

"I'm surprised you remember that, Greg, you weren't exactly firing on all cylinders by that time." John said, varying his tone to hide the monotone of his voice. Lestrade laughed appreciatively, a warm chuckle.

"Yeah, well... Will you at least come out and watch the fireworks with us? I make it... 11'o'clock, that gives you an hour to get across. Sound fair?"

John considered it for a while. Maybe Greg was right. Maybe he was spending too much time moping around.

"He wouldn't have wanted you to be like this, John."

"Oh... alright."

Lestrade beamed. "Excellent! Same place as last year?"

"Okay." John said finally, hanging up. He regretted it almost immediately. What had he just agreed to? Oh, whatever, it couldn't be as bad as he was making it out to be... could it? Maybe it would be alright. If not, it was only for an hour or so and then he could make his excuses and slink away. He pulled on his coat (new, a gift from Mrs Hudson for Christmas) and grabbed the keys from the kitchen table. He'd walk there. It wouldn't take too long - just as long as if he took a taxi. The roads would be chockablock tonight, there was almost no point in even entertaining the thought of travelling by car. He shouted no goodbye as he left - Mrs Hudson had gone out hours before to spend the occasion with her friends.

John stepped out onto Baker Street, making for where he had just arranged to meet Lestrade. He twisted and turned, taking care not to bump into anyone - they probably wouldn't be too stable on their feet tonight, and the last thing he needed was some drunkard picking a fight with him. It was not until about three quarters of his way through the journey that he spotted her. A lone woman, sitting on a bench. She was haggard and thin, and looked as though she desperately needed a shower. She locked cloudy eyes with everyone that passed her, asking for any spare change they might have. Most would shake their heads and walk by quickly, or else pretend she didn't exist. John, however, felt a memory spring into his mind at the sight of her. He had seen her before.

It had been during "The Great Game" case that he had later blogged about. He and Sherlock had been on their way to the gallery. They knew the picture was fake, , but they weren't sure how or why yet. Simultaneously, Sherlock had been trying to figure out the whereabouts of the person who had killed Alex Woodbridge, the security guard who had, by the looks of it, been killed for figuring it out. So they had been driving along in the taxi when..

"Stop. Can you wait here?"

And with that, the door of the taxi flew open and Sherlock leapt out, vaulting the barrier and walking across to... a homeless woman. The same woman.

"Any change?" she had asked.

"What for?" had been his reply.

"Cup of tea, of course."

"Here's fifty." he said, before turning on his heel and walking back towards the car with a smirk on his face and a very confused John in his wake.

A random act of kindness? No, something was strange about what had happened. It turned out that Sherlock had a sort of... well, alliance with the homeless. He slipeed money into their pockets in excahnge for information, any whispers they had overheard whilst out and about. Apparently, they were indispensible for this kind of thing. The conversation Sherlock had had with the woman was a code that he had developed. "What for?" was him asking if they would be willing to gather some information for him. "Cup of tea" was the homeless person replying that yes, they would have a look for him. Money would then be slipped into their outstretched hand, along with two slips of paper - one with Sherlock's request for information, and the other left blank for their reply.

John stopped in his tracks.

What if... well, it was crazy, but what if she still took on those private missions? Suddenly, his instincts were yelling at him to try, just try, you never know. Before he could really analyse what he was doing, he fished into his pockets and found a tenner - all he had on him for now, it would have to do. A flustered search into his coat found a slip of paper, folded up - a shopping list was scrawled on the top, but John quickly ripped it off. He wrote a quick message on it, trying to keep his heart from somersaulting through his chest. What if this worked? His rational side argued that of course if wasn't going to work, this was ridiculous and he was only getting his hopes up so they could be shot down in about ten seconds time. But his adventurous side wouldn't listen, for it dared to dream.

Putting on as neutral and expression as he could, he made ready to walk past her, clutching the ten pound note in his pocket. She looked at him.

"Spare change?"

He took a breath, trying to sound as casual as possible.

"What for?"

The woman's eyebrow quirked enigmatically. There was a silence between the two for what, to John, felt like an age. He barely dared to breathe.

"Cup of tea, Dr Watson."

It took a moment for it to settle in properly. Then John was doubly taken aback. Not only had his plan worked (so far, at least) but she had called him by name. What was up with that? Either she had a phenomenal memory, or... had she been tipped off about him somehow?

Was it Sherlock? Mycroft, maybe?

How?

John hastily handed over the money and paper. "Thank you." he breathed, walking off and resisting the urge to scream or show any sign of excitement. The woman smiled after him, sneakily unfolding the note that the doctor had left her.

"_Find Sherlock Holmes._

_And, if you're reading this, Sherlock, we need to talk. -JW"_

A/N: Happy New Year, everyone! Hope this is alright. This chapter is the first of a two-part chapter, if it goes the way I'm planning it to. As always, the reviews/follows/favourites are very much appreciated, and thanks for bearing with me if I take a little while to update!

And no, I still don't own anything.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock Holmes was in the midst of a terrible sulk.

It had been a while since his last meeting with Mycroft. To be fair, the last meeting hadn't gone too well - it had ended with Sherlock huffily storming out, declaring that he would just "do it himself". Mycroft had made good on his little brothers outburst, and no further communication had occurred between them. That suited him just fine, though a lot more legwork had been required on Sherlocks part to make up for the lack of information now coming from his brother. He was well and truly on his own.

Not to mention that he was bored out of his skull. His mind threatened to stagnate with the distinct lack of normality currently ruling his every waking hour. Starved of anything to do but lurk around in the shadows, his mind craved nothing more than to get back to real life, not this pathetic masquerade of death that he was stuck living. The cold December air was bitter, savagely nipping at his cheeks and the tips of his ears. He adjusted his scarf to cover as much skin as possible, suppressing a shiver. The sooner he could get this little errand completed, the better for eveybody involved.

The excited aura of New Years Eve was fully settled in by this part of the evening. A quick check of his watch - Sherlock made it 11:26. Yes, by this time celebrations would be in full swing. He rolled his eyes - of all the pathetic holidays he could think of, New Years was among the most stupid. What difference did it make to him what the last four digits on that date were? Why was it so exciting for the standard population? It happened _every single year._ It was nothing special. Murders were always going to happen regardless of the year. If murders were always going to occur, then Lestrade and the police force would always be flummoxed over something or other. If Lestrade was flummoxed, then he would always have work. So what did it matter to him? Food, sleep - everything was pointless if he didn't have a case to focus his brain on, something, anything to keep him from boredom. All that mattered was the work.

And his... friends.

John.

John, who had in a sense saved Sherlock from himself. Before John and Sherlock had met, his conscience had lain dusty and moth-bitten in some forgotten corner of his brain. His emotions were completely shut away - they were only a hindrance, keeping his mind distracted from what really mattered to whatever case he was solving. They called him a sociopath for a reason. Sherlock realised now that he had given them every reason to believe that. For the longest time, he had almost believed it himself. But then John had made his first appearance, and from that moment on Sherlock came to realise that his way of thinking was not always necessarily the right way of thinking. John was warm, John was sympathetic - the exact opposite to the detective. He was emotion in a human form, and had softened Sherlock's hard, careless exterior considerably during the time that they had been friends.

Before John and Sherlock had met, quite frankly he had been a bit of a mess. He had dressed in the finest suits, worn scarves of the most luxurious cashmere. He had graduated from university with the world at his very capable fingertips. He could have been anything he wanted to. But instead, the utter normalcy of real adult life left him thoroughly bored. Bereft of stimulation, it barely took him a year to start searching for a distraction. That was where the cigarettes had made their appearance. Slowly, as he got older, life got less interesting, and the cigarettes became a much bigger part of his life. Twenty a day became forty, and forty became sixty, until finally tobacco simply wasn't enough, and that was when he began to inhale things that were much less legal. By the time he reached the age of 25, needles were his weapon of choice. His brother had always chosen to stay detached from Sherlock's life choices - he had a career to think about, and most definitely no time to think about the younger brother who had fallen from grace. But when he did eventually realise that if he didn't do something (and soon) he was at risk of permanently losing the other man to whatever foreign liquid was flowing through his punctured veins, he finally stepped in. There followed a long, painful and at first completely unwanted recovery period. Whatever love had existed once between the two of them was lost forever during that time, and the heated arguments that had transpired between them were soft subjects to this day ("I don't _need _your help, you ba-" "Fine, _kill yourself for all I care!"_). John had unknowingly been the final part of Sherlock's recovery, the part that had finally turned him away from drugs completely. Even sticks had been replaced with patches.

With John's help, he was strong enough to go without.

Considering which night it was, the backstreets of London were much quieter than Sherlock had expected. He shuddered to think of all the drunken partygoers that would be stumbling around by this time of night. They would all be focused elsewhere though, and the majority would be over by the Houses of Parliament, awaiting the fireworks display that would welcome in the New Year with no small amount of noise. The people he was coming to consult wouldn't be too fussed, though. There were simply far too many of them for them all to be too busy to consult with him. Besides, they would be missing out if they weren't around tonight. The detective placed a pale, gloved hand into his coat pocket, felt his fingers brush against the crisp rolled up paper of £20 and £50 notes.

That should cover it.

Extortionately priced were the unique services of the homeless network. His eyes and ears throughout the city, they were regardless worth every penny, for they had access to information that nobody else had any chance of collecting. And that was exactly what he needed - information. Any whispers deaf to the ears of the general public on one Sebastian Moran. Was he still alive? Instinct screamed yes, but he needed solid fact. Whilst he wasn't sure on Moran's status, this tiny spark of hope held on to the belief that he was gone, that he was no longer a danger. He could go home.

Sherlock found his sulk dissipating into a quiet pensive mood as he walked carefully towards the chosen meeting point. Restlessness was slowly beginning to settle in. Sherlock found that he wanted nothing more than to be settling down in his favourite armchair in 221B at the end of the day. Perhaps John would have one of those dull 'talent' shows on telly. Perhaps he would be boiling the kettle, preparing coffee (two sugars for Sherlock, none for himself.) Perhaps he would be berating him for whatever random body part was currently thawing out in the fridge. All Sherlock was sure of was that he could feel himself relaxing at even the thought of wanted his life back.

The woman walked with a distinct purpose, her gait slightly quickened. She was sure of what she had to do. It didn't take a genius deduction to see the hope in John Watson's eyes when she had agreed to take the message for him. It was like he had become luminous, and he had walked off looking as though he hadn't been as happy as he was in that moment for some time. It warmed her insides to think that maybe she was doing a bit of good in the world if she helped in the reunion of the consulting detective and his doctor. She had seen them together before. Many times, they had been out and about investigating away on some case or another, and she had watched them. They were never seen apart in the media, either - no newspaper article on Sherlock was complete without a mention of John Watson, the bachelor flatmate. Even the articles on Sherlock's supposed death didn't finish before a thought was spared for the bachelor he had left behind.

She turned a corner, cuddling into her thick coat which was the only thing keeping her warm. She knew exactly where he would be at this time of night, if he was going to be out. Their standard meeting place was just around the corner from here. It was normally about this time - she made it about 11:37pm - that Mr Holmes would usually make his appearance, with large wads of cash in hand along with some obscure request for seemingly random information. Somebody could live for months on the payment for one night's work with Sherlock Holmes. This was probably the reason that so many of the London homeless were willing to go out of their way for him, no matter how bizarre the request. She liked to think that she assisted him for more than the money.

She had heard rumours on the street (that was her job, after all) that Sherlock was refusing to resurrect himself. He held onto any excuse to stay hidden for a little while longer. Sometimes she wondered why - he was wasting his life by not living... if that made any sense. It did to her. Other times, she understood completely. It must be nice to be completely detached from your life for a little while. To not have to worry about anything except eating and sleeping, to utterly let go of anything from your old life that was causing you stress, or pain, and give yourself a little time to breathe.

Either way, though, a year was a very long time.

Perhaps a note from his doctor would budge him, she thought. She brushed her hand against the note as she turned the final corner.

Sherlock sighed with a slight air of impatience. Nobody was here. Not one single member of his homeless network. He had taken a small walk around the area, but it was as though they had all disappeared. Of all the incovenient times...

He heard the foosteps before the soft, female voice that accompanied it. He did not turn around just yet; he didn't need to. He knew exactly who this was.

"I've been waiting." he said simply, hands behind his back.

The woman scratched the back of her head, smiling with barely contained excitement. "Sorry," she replied, "I've been busy."

He turned to regard her momentarily, scanning her with his blueish eyes.

"I can see." the corners of his mouth turned into a smirk. "And what is it you are so eager to tell me?"

There was barely a reaction: having dealt with Sherlock before, she had become slightly desensitised to the way he could so easily pull seemingly random but always correct information from nowhere. This wasn't to say she was unimpressed by his skills, it was more that it didn't come as much of a shock anymore. Sherlock regularly deduced his homeless network, just to give them a reminder of who it was they were working for.

Instead, she pulled the folded up piece of paper from her pocket, not taking her gaze away from his. She watched his brow furrow curiously.

"I think you should see this, Mr Holmes."

With that, she pressed it into his outstretched palm and took a step back, giving him space. He watched her with slightly narrowed eyes. Just what was on this piece of paper that was apparently so important? He suddenly became aware of the weight of the note in his hands. Slightly crumpled up - apparently, the woman hadn't been too careful with it whilst she had been transporting it over. But no, that didn't fit. She had passed it to him as though it were made of glass. So, the previous owner of the piece of paper had been the one to crumple it up. Obvious. There was a tear all along the top - it had been all the person could find. Desperate, then? What for? More importantly, what was this information that he so badly needed to see? Information on Moran, perhaps. Maybe this was proof that he was alive. Maybe he was dead. That information was important to him. What else was important to him?

John.

Something to do with John?

He peered upwards to regard the woman's expression. It was controlled, though her body leaned ever so slightly forward. She was interested in what was happening. No clues about what exactly was on the paper though, so the only way to find out would be to.. open it. And that was exactly what he did. Brow furrowed, he opened each fold slowly, deliberately, as though the paper would crumble away in his hands with any sudden movements. His mind whirred, trying to work out what exactly was going on here.

The paper unfolded.

Everything was brought to an abrupt standstill. The world stopped spinning on its axis for the longest moment. The bustling crowds of London paused in their tracks. The breath in Sherlock's lungs hitched. He looked up at the woman, who was watching intently. Then he looked back at the paper, at the message that, in an instant, had changed all his plans. Suddenly, he was overcome with the urge to run, to take action. His muscles tensed, and he turned to look at the woman with ever so slightly widened eyes. "Thank you." he breathed. And with that, he turned and ran. That was it, he was finished waiting.

Damned sentiment.

John Watson sighed, thouroughly bored and definitely regretting his decision of about an hour beforehand. According to Big Ben, the obligatory countdown and celebration would take place in ten minutes time. It couldn't come soon enough, in his opinion. Lestrade had been sweet to think of him, but... well, he would much rather be curled up in bed, waiting in the warmth of 221B so he could get to sleep.

Baker Street was surprisingly quiet. Apart from the occasional person who had strayed too far from their chosen party, everybody seemed to be somewhere else. That was good, that was ideal. A tall figure darted across the street, making a beeline for the glossy black door that he recognise as home. 221 Baker Street. Sherlock paused on the doorstep, hesitating. This had been the first time he had stopped for breath since reading the message from John. Doubt was beginning to show its face. Was he really, truly ready for what was about to happen if he walked through that door? Was this the right time? He fumbled in his pocket, felt around for the front door key that he had kept from a year ago. For him, it had symbolised that home was still reachable, one day. He placed it slowly into the keyhole, took a steeling breath, and twisted. The door creaked open. There was no going back now.

He took a hesitant step inside, as though he was going to trip off a laser security system if he stepped in the wrong place. His senses became abruptly overwhelmed by the musty smell, combined with the sweetness of baking from downstairs, combined with the smell of old book - the smell of home. It was dark and silent, aside from the detectives breath and the ticking of a clock. He glanced at the clock - there was one minute left of the year. He could picture all the people standing on the banks, gearing up, counting down. Was John one of them? It seemed that nobody was home.

What if he was wrong?

The thought slammed into him, making him gasp. What if, by coming here, he was endangering all of his friends, all over again? That was exactly what he had wanted to avoid, was the reason that he had spent the whole year in hiding. Was he willing to risk their lives? His thoughts went back to a year ago. Moriarty had made the threat pretty clear: his life or theirs. It struck him that he would do it all again, for real, if he had to. He would gladly give his life if it meant that they would be safe. If it meant that John would be safe. Is that what sentiment is?

The last few seconds of the year ticked down.

Twenty.

Nineteen.

Eighteen.

He took another step in, closing the door behind him.

Seventeen.

Sixteen.

Fifteen.

He padded across the landing some more, ears twitching for any signs of life other than his own.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

He froze, becoming acutely aware of the sound of footsteps behind him. His breath stopped for a second. Who was it? Was it Moran?

Was this all a trap?

Seven.

"Whoever you are, you'd better get out, right now! I'll call the police, I swear I wi-"

The voice was soft but firm, and most importantly of all, _familiar._ The woman shuffled out from her room, brandishing a candlestick holder that abruptly fell to her sides as she locked eyes on just who her unexpected visitor was. Her sentence died in her mouth, and all colour abruptly drained from her face. Sherlock turned to face her.

"Mrs Hudson."

"_Sherlock?_"

**A/N: I am sosososososo sorry about the wait. Not to mention the poor quality of this chapter. Basically, this was all ready to go up around Monday. I logged on and opened up the document, just to give it one last readover before I uploaded it - and the file had corrupted. You would not even believe how upset I was, because I was actually quite happy with it! So I had to start all over ): . So, if the quality is poor, I apologise profusely, but I lost all muse on this chapter because... well, I'd already written it once.**

**To make up for it, though, chapter 6 will hopefully be on its way very soon!**

**Thanks for reading, reviews/favourites/follows would be very much appreciated!**


	6. Chapter 6

"I just don't understand."

Sherlock and Mrs Hudson sat at her kitchen table downstairs, each cradling a cup of tea shakily made by the landlady a few minutes before. Her hands still tremored, the tea rippling in her cup like a disturbed swimming pool, and her paled face had a sort of dazed expression fixed upon it.

"How did you... I mean, um... You were dead, Sherlock. We went to your funeral. We visit your grave all the time. John... saw you. It was definitely you."

Sherlock appeared considerably calmer, though his eyes had a slight mistiness to them that betrayed his true feelings to anyone that was slightly more observant. He slumped slightly forward in his seat, curling in on himself. He showed none of his usual bravado - it had been cleanly stripped away as soon as he had stepped foot inside 221 Baker Street.

"You had to believe it was me, or you would be in terrible danger." he paused, sighing. "All of you. I had to do what I did to ensure your safety. This was my fight, I could not let you be involved." Mrs Hudson digested this slowly, waiting patiently for him to continue his story. "I am truly sorry. To have put you all through this is unforgivable."

She shook her head, cradling her cup of tea in shaking hands.

"No, Sherlock. I, um... I understand. You'll just have to give me a little time to adjust, that's all." she took a small, delicate sip from her mug. "You've alive, and that's all that matters."

Sherlock was unsure on how to reply to this. Never, in all his years, had he been on the recieving end of such kindliness. He shifted in his seat slightly, blinked slowly. As a child, the closest he had come to being looked after came from Mycroft, and even then the care he had recieved had been tainted with a lofty resentment. Sherlock Holmes had never been anything but a burden to anybody that came into contact with him - or, at least, that was the conclusion he had drawn based on his experiences. Even John and Mrs Hudson, who quite frankly were the closest thing the detective had to a family, were not free of the sighs and disappointed "Sherlock"'s, the o sound extended to a whine. Yet, still they continued to tolerate him. Excuse the body parts in the fridge, rise above the snarky comments when he was in a less-than-charitable mood.

And what had he done to repay them? Pretended to fall off a hospital roof, that's what.

Mrs Hudson slowly put her cup down, and looked Sherlock over.

"You look a bit thinner than I remember. Have you been looking after yourself properly whilst you've been... away?" Suddenly, she got to her feet, quickly padding over to the kitchen counter and retrieving what was obviously a homemade victoria sponge. One day old, Sherlock deduced instantaneously. He watched her pensively as she proceeded to cut an insensibly large slice, lay it on a plate and pass it over to him. This was all done rather quickly, as if she were flustered.

"There we are, Sherlock. You look as though you haven't eaten for days. You have been eating, haven't you? And you've had somewhere to stay? It's been a cold year, I hope you've been warm enough. I know what you're like, you tend to forget about what you need. You haven't been on the streets, have you? Oh, Sherlock..." It was as though Mrs Hudson was a tape playing at double-speed, incapable of coming to a stop. She couldn't sit down, instead opting to organise the counter almost obsessively. Her mouth was working overtime, mothering the detectively as if he was one of her own. She offered him every single thing in the cupboard at least twice. Sherlock sat picking at the ridiculous slice of cake quietly, every so often mumbling "No, thank you, Mrs Hudson." or "I'm fine, Mrs Hudson.". He felt thoroughly awkward. The incessant mothering chatter from Mrs Hudson went on until it was almost beginning to irritate the detective. He very quickly caught himself, though, with a sharp internal reminder that he had just put this woman through a terrible ordeal, and if coddling him was her way of dealing with it, he had no right to deny her that.

Eventually, she sat down opposite him again, breathing rate slightly increased and with a slight flush to her cheeks from all the bustling around.

"Did you need anything else, Sherlock?" she asked. He shook his head in reply.

"No. Really, I'm fine." Realising she was watching him expectantly, he took another small bite of cake. That seemed to satisfy her, or at least she sat back in her chair a bit more.

There followed a silence between the two. It wasn't awkward in the slightest, though. It was homely, natural. The atmosphere that had been uncomfortably thick with tension when they had first seen eachother was starting to diffuse. It was eventually Sherlock who spoke, playing with a few crumbs absently with his fork and avoiding the still quite sizeable slice of cake that didn't seem to have an end.

"John. Where is he?"

Mrs Hudson looked up at him.

"Out with Mr Lestrade still, I'd imagine. He left me a little message earlier on - he went to go see the fireworks." Sherlock nodded once, slightly relieved that John wasn't back yet, but slightly eager to see him again so he could get this awful reunion over with. The more he waited, now he was here, the bigger the knot in his stomach became. "He wasn't going out tonight at all initially. Said he wasn't feeling up to it." She looked at him, saw the slight crinkle at the corner of his eyes as he deduced why exactly John wasn't in the mood for celebration. "He's been in quite a state since you left us, Sherlock, I don't mind telling you. Poor man." Sherlock closed his eyes momentarily, suddenly feeling the need to avoid Mrs Hudson's kindly gaze. He was completely aware that John's downturn was completely his fault. He had observed from a distance for pretty much a year, now. He had seen for himself the thinning in his cheeks and the dark circles under the eyes that didn't sparkle anymore. Mycroft had made sure to point out whenever they talked that John wasn't doing well. The dull ache in his thorax intensified for a moment, taking his breath away. Mrs Hudson silently observed. It was quite clear that Sherlock felt absolutely awful. She had never seen him look so human, so guilty in all the time she had known him.

There was another silence.

"He'll be upset with me."

"He'll be... shocked. He might be a little upset- but Sherlock, that's to be expected, my dear." Sherlock had sunk into his 'thinking pose' - two fingers in front of his lips, fists supporting his chin. There was an expression in his eyes fogging over that was a rare sight indeed to see on the detective's face. Guilt. And if she wasn't mistaken... a little bit of fear mixed in there, too. "That's fair enough, isn't it? In his eyes, you've been dead for a year. It's been a very long, very hard year for him, and then for you to reappear and for it to turn out you weren't dead all this time? He'll be thrilled, I'm sure, but..." There was a pause whilst Mrs Hudson looked for the right words. It was an awkward explanation to make, for sure. "You can understand him being a little... emotional. Can't you?"

There was a curt nod from Sherlock, whose cheeks were slowly beginning to drain of colour. Mrs Hudson frowned. "But, he'll understand. Eventually. Just... tell him what you told me. And take it slowly. Alright? It's going to take a little bit of readjustment from him, that's all."

A slight greenish tinge was threatening to make an appearance on the detective's cheeks, though he absolutely refused to let it show. His initial excitement from seeing John's message had completely worn off, only to be replaced with an uncertainty. He found himself regretting his rash movements, cursed the sentiment that had been the fly in the ointment. His judgement had been completely clouded - he had done exactly what he had told himself for months he wasn't going to do. What is this wasn't the right time? What if Moran wasn't dead? What if he had endangered them all over again? This was almost certainly a bad idea. Yes. His actions were selfish. He shouldn't have come. Maybe if he left now, waited a bit longer.

If he could just be certain first-

"You can't run away now, Sherlock." Mrs Hudson murmered with sympathy in her tone. To make a change, Sherlock's thought processes were crystal clear, and Mrs Hudson could read him like a book. The regret, the uncertainty, everything was a neon sign above the detective's paled head. Sherlock had meanwhile frozen in his seat - he had been about to get to his feet and run for the door. It was funny, really - he would never have pegged himself to be a "flight" kind of person. Fight-or-flight was an impulse borne in every human. Sherlock once prided himself on being able to control his impulses to an almost robotic level, and yet here he was completely in the grips of a complete urge to run for the hills. "He needs to know." she told him, keeping eye contact.

Perhaps she was right.

"When..." he cleared his throat defiantly, for his mouth had gone completely dry. "When do you think he will be back?"

She looked over to the clock - it was about 12:40am. "I'd say it takes him about three quarters of an hour to walk, so... maybe ten minutes or so? That's if he doesn't decide to stay out a bit longer."

Another small nod.

"Tonight?" He murmered softly. Hesitantly.

"Yes, dear." she said warmly. "I think it might be best for everyone to just get it over with. Rip the plaster off, you know."

He nodded silently. On one hand, what she was saying made perfect sense. This whole camaraderie had gone on for far too long now. But...

"Could it not wait until morning? He'll probably be tired, it might be best that we wait until he's..."

"But when he finds out in the morning, he'd going to react exactly the same way. It might even be a bit worse for him, knowing that you were under the same roof for a whole night and you didn't go and see him. Because there's no way I'm going to let you sleep anywhere but here tonight, Sherlock, I know what you're thinking." Sherlock had opened his mouth to argue that he didn't have to stay when Mrs Hudson cut across him. He shifted in his chair restlessly. He just wanted this whole horrible situation over and done with now so he could get back to his life. What was this - was Sherlock Holmes nervous? That was ridiculous. Sherlock Holmes did not get nervous, end of - especially not over John Watson. Bracing himself, he suddenly came to decide that his plaster was ready to be ripped off. Painful or not, he simply could not drag this out any longer. Mrs Hudson watched him as he got to his feet, brushing his coat down and setting a firm expression on his features. She got to her feet too (slower than the other man, though, her hip was playing up again). Before he could object, the woman pulled him into a warm hug. Sherlock stiffened, unsure on how to react to this unforeseen movement.

"You'll be fine." she told him softly. "He'll be happy you're alive, I promise." Sherlock nodded stiffly, as though he was a wooden puppet uncapable of fluid movement. Mrs Hudson pulled away, taking a step back. "I'm sorry, dear, I forgot you don't really do hugging. You'd better go upstairs now, he'll probably be coming in any minute."

Sherlock obliged, moving silently to walk through into the landing and up the stairs. Mrs Hudson watched on from the bottom, lips pursed with concern and the tiniest hint of disbelief still lingering in her expression. Sherlock Holmes was not dead. He was here. He was walking up her stairs. Not dead. Not dead at all.

What a night it had been.

"Oh, and Sherlock?" she called after him. He paused mid-step, turning to face her.

"Yes?"

"I'm glad you're alive, dear."

Sherlock found himself smiling at this. There had, he would admit, been a little demon on his shoulder for the year since he had fallen. Every so often, the demon would whisper poisonously in his ear, hissing that those close to him were better off with him dead. They didn't care, they never had. He had only been a nuisance to them. Above all, they didn't care if he was alive. At some of the lower times during the year, Sherlock had been completely convinced of these facts. After all - why would they miss him? He was well aware of his personal faults. He was blunt - carelessly so. He was completely impossible to get along with. He had no time for stupidity, and he didn't mind telling anybody of this fact. He was arrogant, he was self-centered. Lazy. Messy. He was absolutely certain that if he asked anybody that knew him to describe him in 5 words, they would all be negative. It had gotten to the point where he had considered not returning at all. They didn't care, they had all moved on. So what was the point? Hearing those words said, of her own free will, unknotted one small part of his tangled insides.

He climbed the familiar steps, acutely conscious of the sound of his own breath. Inexplicably, each step felt more right than the last, like he was stepping back into sync with the world. Just through the door at the top of the steps, now. He would be home.

He was caught completely by surprise by the rush of sentiment that flooded his synapses and took his breath away as he took his first step into 221B. Everything was considerably tidier than how he remembered it (John had been here to organise it all , and he hadn't been there to mess it up), but everything remained decorated exactly the same. Untouched. The mirror still hung on the wall exactly where it had once been, and a pale reflection stared right back at him as he regarded it. The spray painted smiley face on the wall was still missing a bullet-shaped chunk. He noticed a distinct lack of scientific equipment clogging up the kitchen counter, but that was to be expected.

Right in the middle of the room sat two chairs. The exact same two armchairs that sat in the exact same spot as they had last year. One was small, but cushioned well and obviously comfortable. The other was tall, elegantly cut and covered with leather. His chair. Instinct directed him to take a seat, staring around at the room that was so familiar yet so foreign in its design. The ticking of the clock marked each second.

Tick.

Tock.

He sat in silence and waited. And thought. There was no turning back now. The time was agonisingly slow, mocking the detective as he waited in the dark. It had been about five minutes of complete silence save for the ticking of the clock when he heard it. It was the metallic sound of a key turning in a lock. It was the creak of the front door of 221 Baker Street opening. It was the shuffle of footsteps, one by one, as they ascended the stairs to 221B. Sherlock froze.

John.


	7. Chapter 7

John closed the front door behind him with great care and a muffled bang. Mrs Hudson was probably asleep; he didn't want to wake her. He had, in all honesty, been eager to escape Lestrade and his happiness and his fireworks – as soon as the (admittedly impressive) display had finished he had made his excuses and rushed back in the direction of 221B. Greg had given him a concerned look, but he had assured him that it was only because it had been a long day and he was tired. It was the truth, too. This was without mentioning all that excitement with the homeless woman and the note. John cringed internally at the thought as he shuffled through the main hallway, heading for the stairs to his flat. What an idiot. The poor woman must have thought him insane, asking her to send a note to a man that was long dead. Why she had even obliged, allowed him to live out his ridiculous fantasy, was beyond him. She likely just didn't have the heart to say no.

He continued to give himself a stern internal talking-to as he climbed the stairs slowly, trying to be as quiet as possible. The facts were clear. No matter how he had tried to deny it, it had been pretty much a year since Sherlock had disappeared from his life. Life had moved on without the detective. There were still strange cases, but there was no Sherlock Holmes to take one look at the unfortunate victim and deduce exactly what had gone on. Why couldn't he move on, too? It was, quite frankly, pathetic. He was a Captain in the Army. He was a surgeon. He had dealt with death every day of his working life – striving to save it, even aiming to take it away. He held the metaphorical scales of life in his hands every time he stepped into work. So why was it that this one man could so efficiently take away all that training, all the learned detachment?

It still pained him. John wondered if it would ever really go away; the dull ache in his chest at the very mention of his name. But it was time for him to move on, he told himself. A New Year's Resolution of sorts. Sherlock Holmes was dead. The sooner he accepted that fact – ripped the plaster off, so to speak – the better it would be for everybody. His mourning period was over. The Consulting Detective would always be remembered by the doctor, but it was time for him to take his first tentative steps towards moving on.

The pounding sound of each footstep John took towards the front door of 221B reverberated like a drum beat inside Sherlock's ear. His own heartbeat thrummed apprehensively as his blueish eyes stared straight ahead into the darkness. His hands were steepled in front of his face, elbows resting on the arms of the armchair that he had claimed as his own all that time ago. He was faced away from the door, staring ahead into nothing and relying purely on his sense of hearing to gage when John had entered the room. And while he waited, he thought. A million ideas all clambering for attention. Truly an engine, racing out of control. Racing towards what, he wondered.

The front door groaned open, spreading a sliver of light from the hallway into the darkened front room. Sherlock froze in his seat, almost forgetting to breathe. He stayed as still as possible, his full focus instead on the owner of the silhouette who reached for the lightswitch and flicked it on, illuminating the room.

John became immediately and acutely aware of another presence in the living area. Army training kicked in automatically and he moved into an attack stance instinctively. "Who's there?" he intoned, voice gravelly and hard. Sherlock was surprised by the voice – hard and metallic, and most definitely not the warm tone of the John Watson that he had left behind a year previously. It hit him very quickly that for all his planning and mounting tension about this very moment, he had no idea what to do next.

"I got your note."

John's heart skipped a beat. His feet abruptly rooted to the spot, completely frozen. He knew that voice. It was impossible. He was imagining things. But his mind reached to replay the four words that the intruder had spoken over again. It was said softly, but in the baritone of a man who was definitely, positively dead. Okay, John. Focus. Just seconds ago he had told himself that it was time to move on from the owner of that voice. But now?

This absolutely could not be happening.

At this moment, Sherlock turned to face his shellshocked companion, getting to his feet slowly. This was it. There was definitely no turning back now. He looked John over with a hint of desperacy in his expression, extracting every bit of information he could from the doctor. From a distance, whilst he had been keeping tabs on the other man, he had seen the thinned cheeks and the return to the walking stick. He was not prepared for the lack of light in his companions eyes. It denoted a pain such that nobody else had ever felt. It appeared almost to be an apathy from the normally vibrant man. John's jaw had slackened ever so slightly open, and had abruptly lost all colour from his face.

This wasn't happening.

This wasn't happening.

This could not be happening.

It couldn't, right?

Had he finally lost it?

"Sh- Sherlock?" he managed to breathe, barely audible.

"Yes, John. It's me." Sherlock nodded once in reply, unable to tear his gaze away from the blond.

He took a step towards John: slow, methodical, like he was handling a spooked animal that was at immediate risk of bolting at any second. John remained rooted to the floor, struggling to create any logical trains of thought. He could perceive no chain of events that could lead to a dead detective walking towards him, and yet—

It had to be fake. It was the only explanation of all the facts, the only conclusion that made any sense. Sherlock would have been proud of his attempt at logical thinking.

"You sick bastard." He murmured, sounding dazed and impossibly weary, like he was suddenly the oldest man on the planet. "Why would you do this to me?"

Sherlock paused, heart sinking. The uncensored hurt in John's voice singlehandedly made him feel awful. It was almost sickening to think. This was a man who had detached himself from emotion for years on end, believing it to be nothing but a distraction. Pointless. So to be attacked so swiftly and so viciously almost took his breath away.

"I get it. Let's all antagonise John Watson, that crazy bloke who still believes in Sherlock Holmes, right? Who sent you, the papers?" John's tone was heating, but the emotion was also building and threatening to show in the water pooling in his eyes. "I've already said no interviews, okay? It's one thing to write an article, but to send a fake dressed up as—"

Sherlock understood immediately, though it did nothing to negate the tension in the room that was tangible, cloying.

"You misunderstand, it's really m—"

"Sherlock Holmes is dead!" John yelled, the first tear escaping and running down his cheek, flecked with anger and sorrow. "There, is that what you want to hear? I saw it! I saw him—" his voice cracked and the sentence died in his throat. Sherlock felt completely helpless. How could he fix this? Take the pain away. This had never been his intention. He took another step towards the doctor, who glared at the floor, shoulders slumped in defeat. "Get out. Before I call the police."

Sherlock was undeterred though. He had to make this right. "John, look at me." He murmured when they were almost touching. John shook his head in reply, defiantly continuing to look to the floor. Sherlock softly ghosted his hand by the doctor's cheek and guided his head upwards. They locked eyes: Sherlock cool blueish ones and John's green, that widened in disbelief. There followed a moment of absolute silence. It seemed that even the clock dared not to disturb them.

"I'm so sorry."

John shook his head, moving away from Sherlock's hand and taking a step backwards. His cheeks were stained with tear tracks.

"You're alive." He whispered weakly, surprised even at himself for saying the words.

And then his knees gave way.

Sherlock darted forward to catch him, hooking his arms under the other man's shoulders and lowering him gently to the floor. John, who was semi-conscious, made no effort to fight against the movement. It was as if his brain had completely short-circuited, leaving him unable to form any but the simplest thoughts. I am on the floor. Why am I on the floor? I am moving. Somebody is moving me. My arm is wrapped around their shoulder. Now I am being sat down. In a chair? No, the sofa. I am leaning back into the cushions. Sherlock is staring at me.

Sherlock is alive.

Sherlock looked across at John from the other side of the sofa with a look of concern on his features. It was yet more proof that John had been a lot more affected by his 'death' than he could ever have imagined. He had collapsed. As in, not-in-the-room fainted as what he had said sank in. Even now, his breathing rate was increased, as if he had just sprinted a mile, yet his face was ghostly, drained of all colour.

He had to press on, though.

"John, I need to apologise to you. There was no pleasant way to do this. I never thought for a second that the situation would upset you so much."

John snapped his head up to face the detective.

"Sherlock, you _jumped off a building and forced me to watch._ What part of that wasn't going to upset me? Jesus…" John gave a deep sigh, exhausted both physically and mentally by the days events, and the sudden turn things had taken. He protested but his brain was replaying the terrible scene from a year ago. He blinked hard, shook his head to stop the video from playing again, but it continued regardless. He focused his gaze on the floor once more, leaning slightly forward in his seat – a recovery position, letting all the blood flow to his head. It was impossible. Even Sherlock Holmes couldn't cheat death.

"Why didn't you just tell me?" John asked weakly after an extended silence, turning to face the detective and looking him over. Sherlock frowned.

"Moriarty. He.." he paused. Was now an appropriate time to really go into the details? Could John really handle the naked truth right now? John stared. "He what?"

"He threatened to… kill you." Sherlock replied, as delicately as possible. John blinked, any colour that had slowly started to reappear in his cheeks quickly draining again.

"But he's dead too—oh, don't tell me. He's alive as well."

"No." Sherlock shook his head quickly with a grimace, also casting his mind back to that day. The austere expression in his archenemy's eyes as they shook hands for the first and last time. It was, inexplicably, one of genuine gratitude. No tricks, no lies – just a man who had lived a life with boredom so stifling that he was willing to take his own life to play a game through to the end. "No, he's really gone."

"Okay…" John said with uncertainty. "So why didn't you come back sooner? Or – or told me what you were going to do, at least! I could have helped—"

"No." Sherlock interrupted, a touch more strength in his tone. "This was my fight, John. My problem. For me to deal with – alone. I could not allow you to come under any more danger on my behalf." John opened his mouth to answer, but Sherlock shot him an intense gaze that caused his argument to wither in his throat. "He threatened your life, John. There was a sniper rifle trained on your head the whole time you were there." John frowned, but with the bizarre night he was having and the revelations that were coming out, he wasn't surprised.

"But… he shot himself, didn't he? He was already dead by the time you… well, you know. Why carry on playing?"

"He was dead, but the sniper was not."

John digested this.

"But you… you could have died. You did that to save me?"

There was another silence between the two. Sherlock nodded once, silent. John sighed, sinking back into the cushions of the sofa again.

"How did you do it?" John breathed, after at least two minutes of both parties remaining in silent thought. Sherlock blinked, looking over to lock eyes with John's curious gaze. The warmth was already beginning to reappear in the doctor's eyes. It was going to take time, as Mrs Hudson had warned him. There was a wall in his companion's expression – one that was going to take a very long time to come down, if it ever did. But it was a start.

"You don't want to know, really." Sherlock said, but John shook his head.

"I do, Sherlock. It… it would help me. Y'know, to understand."

Sherlock frowned.

"Well…"

**A/N: Hello again, guys – it's been a while! I'm sorry that this took so long. My muse died because the reunion is such a critical moment and I wasn't sure how to play it properly. But there it is. Apologies if it sucks.**

**Favourites/follows/reviews are much appreciated, as always. Thank you!**


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